


Tart

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kíli tries to weasel his way out of Thranduil’s cells through humility, which might almost be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tart

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thranduil likes it when Kili begs him for things.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24322421#t24322421).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thranduil watches them come through the distance, half expecting the bound dwarf to break free at any moment and bolt for the doors on his short, stubby legs. He would, of course, be caught in an instant, but the struggle might proof amusing. Yet the dwarf marches steadily forwards between Thranduil’s two guards, all the way up the winding path. 

He’s deposited before the throne, shoved across the dais and made to stumble, just barely catching himself from toppling over. One of the guards steps forward to press a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, waiting for the sign to make him kneel. 

Thranduil has enough power and can see that this dwarf knows it, so he only nods for his guards to leave. They recede to a distance, close enough to see trouble coming but safely out of earshot, giving the king his privacy. He can, after all, handle himself around a little Dwarven child, who can’t be more than fifty years of age and hardly even has his own beard. Just in case, the dwarf’s arms are tied firmly behind him, strapped together with the a thick, unbreakable rope that cuts into the dwarf’s too many layers of clothes and smatterings of armour. He stands tall anyway, while Thranduil lounges back in his seat. 

“I’ve been told,” Thranduil drawls, tilting his head aside to rest his cheek in his palm, elbow against the elegant wooden armrest, “that you don’t share your leader’s stubbornness.”

“My name is Kíli,” the dwarf says first and foremost, like that gives him any claim to speak to a king. He pauses before he adds, “And I’m willing to swallow my pride for the freedom of my kin. I’ll beg, if I must.”

A thin smile stretches its way across Thranduil’s lips. Now, this is a surprise. He hasn’t had a dwarf beg him for anything in centuries. He was fully prepared to throw this dwarf out by the ears, shrouded in misguided loyalty to the end, but apparently, this Kíli has some sense in him. He looks at Thranduil with brave countenance, even tied and dirty as he is, desperately in need of a hot bath and a scrub. All of the dwarves are wrecks, having crawled their way through the perils of Mirkwood, starved and beaten and exhausted. Perhaps, Thranduil muses, he could provide that bath, if Kíli continues being as gracious as he seems. 

He does the right thing, next. He sees the king’s open invitation to go on, and he nods to himself before bending one leg. He drops awkwardly to his knees, his balance difficult without his arms but managing. He sits, small and tamed, at Thranduil’s feet, bowing his head in complete submission. His forehead touches Thranduil’s knees, and Thranduil has the tempting urge to spread his legs: allowing this dwarf to move closer.

But there’s no indication of that particular form of bribery, so Thranduil stays as he is, relaxed in the height of his kingdom, while the lowly dwarf slowly straightens his back out again. He looks up at Thranduil with a strange mix of trepidation and force of will in his eyes, then licks his lips with a small, pink tongue. He keeps his voice pleasantly low and subserviently when he says, “Please, My Lord, allow my friends their freedom. We meant no disrespect to your land, and we’d be happy to leave it at your bidding.”

Thranduil almost snorts. It isn’t much of a plea. Ignoring the rest, he purrs, “I’m _your_ lord now, am I, dwarf?” He hadn’t expected such acknowledgement from the companions of Thorin Oakenshield. 

Kíli’s eyes flash, but he’s more determined than Thranduil would’ve thought. He dips his head and mutters, “My apologies. Again, I meant no disrespect. But you would be a king to me if you were to grant them freedom.”

“Only them?” Thranduil could have fun with this. Kíli shifts, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth again while he thinks. He isn’t bad looking, for a dwarf. Taller than most, and slimmer, nowhere near as lithe and delicate as an elf, but soft, nonetheless. Handsome in an exotic, rugged sort of way. When Kíli doesn’t immediately answer, Thranduil says, “You and all your company would have your freedom, if you’d only tell me the details of your journey.” It’s the utter truth, and it seems cruel to lead this little dwarfling along when that’s all Thranduil really wants. 

Kíli says, “That’s not mine to tell.” He is as stubborn as Thorin, then. Thranduil’s eyes stray across the depths of his hall, projecting boredom, and it has the helpful effect of making the little dwarf shuffle forward, insisting, “But surely there is something I can say to appease you. We’re tired and hungry, and we’ve come too far to die in your dungeons. Please, I _beg of you_ , show us mercy. I’ll say anything you like.” He shakes his head with such tempting desperation, face screwed up in its efforts. Kíli _is_ brave, in ways that dwarves hardly appreciate but elves give far more gravity too; he’s brave of spirit, not so distracted with pride. When he arches forward, the loose waves of his chestnut hair tumble over his broad shoulders, and he implores, “I want to believe you are a great king. Your halls are magnificent, your people beautiful, and you are the most glorious of all. _Please_ , show me that you are kind as well. I will kneel and bow to you for as long as you wish, beg until my throat is sore, if only you will let my friends go. You must know that it isn’t easy for me to be here—Thorin would kill me if he knew—but if empathy isn’t enough to overcome your feud with my uncle, then know that you have won through my submission. Please. I will do and say whatever I must, but let them go.”

 _Them_ again. But Thranduil’s mind is lingering over other words: this is Thorin’s _nephew_. The thought alone makes Thranduil grin, makes him want to laugh—how _furious_ the dwarf lord would be, to see his own kin kneeling at Thranduil’s boots, pleading desperately and offering such obedience. Thranduil isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or pleased to know he’s thought of Thorin Oakenshield’s kin as attractive, but it’s now undeniable. He reaches his hand forward, fingers slipping easily across Kíli’s warm cheek, and Kíli, bowed and broken, leans wantonly into the touch. He is serious, then, about begging for his party’s freedom. 

Thranduil finds that he _likes_ seeing Kíli beg, and his thumb drifts to stroke through Kíli’s short stubble while longer fingers curl under his chin. Thranduil tilts it up, examining Kíli’s exotic beauty in the light, and though Kíli’s embarrassment momentarily overtakes his determination, he lets himself be touched. He lets himself be stroked, pet back through his hair, his jaw traced, and the tip of Thranduil’s nail draws tantalizingly over his lips. How much, Thranduil wonders, could he really do to this poor creature?

He’s no monster. His interest is mounting, and he finally removes his own chin from his hand, leaning intently forward. But he doesn’t pull Kíli into his lap like he might want, and instead purrs, “I am impressed that you would come to me like this. ...But... I must wonder how far you would really go.” His lazy smirk is unstoppable, and he continues to pet Kíli’s face while he waits for his answer. Clearly, Kíli is not used to being touched for another man’s amusement, because he squirms and flushes, though he never once pulls away. If anything, his body seems to rise to meet Thranduil’s hands, keening to be stroked. Kíli shivers, then grits his teeth and averts his eyes. 

He hisses quietly, “I would do a great deal for Thorin’s release.” It doesn’t even look like it would be such a hardship on him. The more Thranduil touches him, the more he looks aroused, and finally he turns his face fully into Thranduil’s palm and nuzzles into it, inhaling deeply, his eyes closed and his cheeks burnt a pretty pink. 

Thranduil is sorely tempted to suggest that an arrangement be made, wherein _they_ are allowed to go, but Kíli stay, to beg Thranduil ever night for a new kind of release.

If only Thranduil were so cruel. Perhaps, someday, when the little dwarf is grown and finished trailing after his uncle’s side, he will return and submit himself freely to being Thranduil’s consort. In the meantime, Thranduil can’t violate such innocence, and he withdraws his hands. 

Kíli almost looks disappointed, but then he schools himself back to stone, staring up at Thranduil in waiting. 

“I will not release any dwarves until your quest is revealed.” Kíli opens his mouth to protest, but Thranduil lifts a hand to instantly silence him. “I will, however, promise that you and your companions shall be treated well during your stay.” And he lifts his hand, signaling his guards. 

Kíli looks _furious_. Thranduil turns away while his guards come and collect their prisoner, dragging him off by his bound arms, while Kíli splutters for more time, more talk, that will only make Thranduil weak and offer him nothing.

Still, as Kíli’s handsome voice dies into the background, Thranduil can’t help but imagine the possibilities...


End file.
